


Fever, gettin' higher

by RurouniHime



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awards, Chicken (game of), Coming Out, Dancing, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Gyms, M/M, Motorcycles, Sassy Steve, Song Lyrics, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Teasing, Tony Being Tony, Tony is a troll, Tony is a twit, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and Steve's got it covered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4246266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Yeah, okay, Steve Rogers knows what sexual harassment is. Despite his out-of-fashion upbringing, he’s not some backwater Neanderthal, thank you, he gets why it’s bad. He’ll go to bat for anyone who determines they’re the victim of unwelcome advances in the workplace. He’s not devaluing its impact, for god’s sake. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>But the key word here, as he sees it, is ‘unwelcome.’ And that… might not be what this is.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On and on and on

**Author's Note:**

> I listen to waaaaaay too much Pandora at work.

“If we’re talking body, you’ve got a perfect one.” Absently, from across the lab.

Steve raises his head. Slowly. Someday when he does it, it’ll hit home and the object of his stare will stop dead and acknowledge the unstable ground he’s just strayed onto. He eyeballs his melodious companion from across twenty feet of space.

“So put it on me,” Tony continues. He pokes the metal tangle in his hands with needle-nose pliers and his tongue climbs out the side of his mouth as he winds something up within. He continues to hum, little off-key bursts that are just this side of ignorable.

Steve clears his throat loudly, but the humming carries on, adopting a definite _air._ Around Tony’s mouth, Steve can make out a smile.

He heaves a pointed huff, and goes back to his drawing.

**

Yeah, okay, Steve Rogers knows what sexual harassment is. Despite his out-of-fashion upbringing, he’s not some backwater Neanderthal, thank you, he gets why it’s bad. Horrible, actually; he’ll go to bat for anyone who determines they’re the victim of unwelcome advances in the workplace, and he sure as hell won’t let it to go quietly into the night if it happens to him. He’s not devaluing its impact, for god’s sake. He understands that it is and always has been a Big Issue.

But the key word here, as he sees it, is ‘unwelcome.’ And that… might not be what this is. Tony Stark’s always been a bit of a jackass and Steve’s undecided about the nuance.

“You’re undecided about the nuance,” Sam says, flat, and Steve shrugs.

“Come on. Seventy percent of this has nothing to do with the innuendo and everything to do with me being born in the Twenties.”

“So he chose Tove Lo as his spokesperson?” Sam despairs.

“Who?”

Sam Googles it for him. It’s… kind of catchy, actually. Steve says as much.

“Eesh,” Sam tells the ceiling.

Steve holds out his phone. “Show me how you make the ringtones again?”

“No.”

“Is it with the Tweeter?”

“Oh my god, Rogers, shut up.”

“Seriously, help me copy paste it. Do I press this thingy—oh—wait—” He sets it as Sam’s personal ringtone and lets it play on repeat, holding it up so Sam can see his dopey profile gif doing the shake. “Aw.”

Sam gives him the hairy eyeball. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know that.”

** 

But Steve’s ready to play this game, and it is a catchy song. The next time Tony sings the line, fiddling with all his little toys again, Steve, over on the couch, follows it up with an inattentive “If you love me right, we’ll love for life.” 

The other side of the lab goes quiet. But when Steve looks up, Tony’s futzing with the robotics as though he doesn’t even know Steve’s there.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features [Talking Body](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AzRyxGBGiAE) by Tove Lo. (The clean version because, Steve.)


	2. Get up on this!

“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Commander?” Fury asks.

“No, sir,” even though Fury’s not his director anymore and they both know it.

“Are you sure,” Fury asks. Without asking. It’s a thing, Steve’s been practicing it himself in front of the mirror.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He doesn’t make statements like that at random.

“Nothing about a certain recording I’m going to have to erase before a certain marksman pumps it through the sound system at a certain company holiday party.”

“That’d be your prerogative, of course.”

Fury sighs and hangs his head like pushing for the Avengers Initiative is the thing he regrets most in his torrid life. “You’re not even a little bit upset about it?”

Actually, Steve is. It’s one thing to play this stupid game in the seclusion of the Tower, quite another to engage over an open comm line during battle. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Commander.” Fury slaps his gloves down on the desktop and straightens. “We have paperwork for this. Plenty of it, and plenty of people eager to process it. If you want to pursue this, we can help you. Technically, he falls under the role of employee—”

“Does he?”

“Because we are very good at the fine print.” Fury glares beadily at him and continues. “As I was saying. Technically, we can mete out an appropriate punishment.”

Steve stands tall, hands clasped behind his back, and looks straight at the wall. “No, thank you, sir.”

“Steve.”

“I’m handling it.”

At that, Fury looks at him, really looks. Steve looks right back.

Finally, Fury shrugs. “Well, God be with you, then,” he mutters, signaling Steve’s dismissal.

Steve goes.

“FRIDAY,” he says once he’s out on his bike, toeing up the kickstand and settling into the seat. “How are you?”

 _“I’m very well, Steve, thank you,”_ she answers cheerfully from his phone. Steve smiles.

“Can you run a search for me, please?” He has a crumb of an idea that is fast taking shape.

_“Say the word.”_

**

Doom is blowing up the docks the next time Tony opens his mouth. It’s not nearly as vulgar as last time, but it _is_ still the same song FRIDAY researched for him. “Can’t you hear the music’s pumping hard like I wish you would,” and Steve reels him in by the crook of his arm, the repulsors already holding Tony a foot off the ground. The other Avengers stand around awkwardly, not looking at them as Steve leans in close.

“Tony?”

“Cap?”

Steve looks him right in the eye slits and says, quietly, “This dance ain’t for everybody.”

The faceplate flips up and Tony stares back at him, utterly silent. He searches Steve’s face, and Steve lets him have it, straight up. For a long time, there’s barely any sound beyond the chaos of Doom’s design.

Finally, Steve raises his eyebrows, and Tony’s chin hitches down. It’s not a nod, not at all. But the comm does stay clean of all further ‘commentary’ for the remainder of the fight.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features [Push It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCadcBR95oU) by Salt-n-Pepa. Because in what world would Tony Stark NOT be a fan?


	3. The things I would do to you

But Steve should have known better: to Tony, his response was as good as a thrown gauntlet.

Tony and Steve part ways on one very important front—Steve prefers to go into battle _with_ a game plan—but they aren’t as different as Tony likes everyone to believe, because Steve also enjoys changing it up mid-fight. There’s nothing quite like being adaptable to get the blood pumping. 

Tony doesn’t declare his duel in public, and while that’s a step forward in Steve’s opinion, Tony Stark is nothing if not a master of his surroundings. So Steve is attentive. He keeps his opponent’s idiosyncrasies in mind, and his eyes and ears open.

Case in point: Steve likes to be comfortable while lifting weights, but he’s not averse to sacrifice. His t-shirt pulls at his armpits and strains tightly across his spine with each press of the dumbbell. His sweats are rolled down to just where the shirt hem rides up, framing his navel every time he exerts himself, and the legs hug his thighs when he’s _not_ moving. He certainly doesn’t need the mirror to tell him what happens when he’s bench-pressing six hundred pounds.

These are the weapons in Steve’s arsenal, and he’s proud of them.

As expected, Tony plays dirty. If Steve weren’t so focused on milking his exercise regime to its full potential, he might be a little sidetracked by the thin tank top Tony has on, the one that bares the muscles in his arms and sheaths his torso as though it’s been wrapped there by lingering hands. There are burn marks all over it, likely the wrath of a soldering iron, and pale skin peeks through as Tony bends to set the weight on the leg press. Steve grunts through his next set, partly for show. Partly not.

“Need a spot?” Tony calls.

“Thanks, no.” Steve pushes through ten extra reps, knowing Tony’s eyes are on him. He sits up when he’s done and pulls up his t-shirt to wipe his face. The leg press is still silent behind him. He flexes one arm across his chest and twists a little, stretching his ribs. Midway through, the leg press hisses into motion, well-greased pistons sliding up and down as Tony works.

Steve glances over. It’s a miscalculation, and he takes the hit soundly. Tony’s legs bend, the muscles bunching beautifully, and then stretch almost straight, shaking from the effort. But it’s smooth and controlled, and Tony repeats it again and again, a steady in-out of breath.

Steve clears his throat. He sets up more weights. And eventually, Tony starts humming.

It’s a simple tune, a set of repeated notes up and down. It’s absent enough to be incidental, and Tony’s got a pair of earbuds in, but Steve’s willing to bet any actual music is just background. There’s a certain awareness to Tony’s frame that raises the hairs on Steve’s arms.

The tune gets more intricate, building off the main line, and Steve is caught mid-rep trying to figure out if he’s heard it before, when Tony opens his mouth. 

“My saddle’s waitin’,” he sings clearly. “Come and jump on it.”

 _That’s_ what Steve’s waiting for. He pops an earbud in and discreetly searches the lyric on his phone, his heart tripping faster. He’s never done this sort of thing before, never baited someone else in quite this way. Thanks to FRIDAY, the song’s already playing, echoing Tony’s humming in a lazy, pulsing rhythm. Steve’s all set to let fly with an equally lewd— _god,_ are these lyrics lewd—comeback when the singer opens up in his ear with the very first line, and snags Steve’s tongue.

That’s… Well. That’s interesting.

Steve doesn’t think about it, thinks about intelligent tactics instead, how adaptability and shock value have won many a war. He listens to the full song. Finishes his reps, replaces the bar, and takes a swig of water. He’s not fully decided on his next stroke even as he makes it: a meander past the leg press on his way to the towels.

“I’m just a bachelor,” he sings, “lookin’ for a partner.”

There’s a great thunk as the weight falls from a height, the kind of clang that makes Steve wince. He fishes a towel from the stack with numbed fingers and wipes his face, feeling the blood beating in his cheeks, and finally, finally dares a look to see what his latest strike has wrought.

Tony’s face is flushed from exertion, his mouth slightly open. He sits frozen in the weight machine’s seat, watching Steve with wide eyes.

Steve, for his part, pitches the towel into the hamper halfway across the room, winks at Tony, and leaves the gym whistling the next line.

And makes it all the way down the hall because he’s Not Thinking About It.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features the incomparable [Pony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbnoG2dsUk0) by Ginuwine. Hot damn.
> 
> Incidentally, I am about to leave the house to go see Magic Mike XXL. Perfect day to post this, as it turns out. ^_~


	4. Baby, I'm not foolin'

When Tony works on his cars, the music always lets everyone know it. He likes his garage grinding, cement dust sifting off the walls to the rhythm of synthesizer and drum. Steve finds it appropriate; there’s something about the edgy bass and rough guitars that puts him in mind of sweat, grease, black stripes up and down his forearms as he cranks away at a chassis, nicks and cuts on his knuckles from tinkering with an engine block. 

Steve might not be Tony’s match at swanky four-wheelers, but he knows his bikes pretty well. Today, he’s on one knee beside a 1922 Henderson DeLuxe that he rescued from a scrap heap a few months back, messing with the intake manifold. He personally took this one apart, cleaned it to within an inch of its life, and put it back together with better everything, and though he won’t ever be able to hawk it as a restored original, it looks like it was always meant to, and runs on a quarter of the fuel.

The best part is that it’s a hundred percent his bike. He knows it intimately. It feels, sounds, and smells like his, it has his sweat in its gears and his blood on its leather, and he loves it to pieces.

Tony’s off to the right, hunkered down in front of a sinfully pretty Rover 10, replacing a damaged bumper. His hands are, for once, not dirty in the slightest; he handles the slender metal paneling with a deft grip, keeping sharp edges far away from its surface. All while bopping his head in time to the song blasting overhead.

Steve wipes excess grease off gleaming chrome and waits.

Tony scats for a bit, then returns to head bobbing with his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he hits a repair that requires more finesse. Steve could watch him like this for hours, has done so for whole minutes at a time, and is thankful that when Tony’s in the zone, he barely notices anyone or anything outside it. That kind of abandon is so magnetic. Difficult to look away from. Tony pauses in his tinkering to rap a swift tattoo on the floor with his screwdriver, utilizing both ends like it’s a drumstick, and finally—

“Way, way down inside,” he belts out, “I’m gonna give you my love. Gonna give you every inch of my love. Gonna give you my love.”

Steve knows this song. Steve _loves_ this song. The first time he heard the opening riff, his pulse jumped three notches and his breath netted in his throat. He memorized it on the first go, stuck it in his iPod as soon as he figured out how. He sits on the end of his bed air-drumming until his arms hurt, and plays it on repeat lying flat on the carpet doing absolutely nothing but enjoying the raw sound. 

And he knows exactly the line he wants.

It doesn’t take long. Tony has paused where he sits. They’re level with each other, both on the floor, and in the lull, the tense fall and creeping rise toward the end, Steve can smell the dirt in all the tire treads and the oil pooling on the cement.

The riff roars back with a vengeance, and Steve’s pulse jumps. He snaps his fingers once, and like clockwork, Tony turns to look.

“Shake for me, babe,” he retaliates, staring Tony right in the eye. “I wanna be your backdoor man.”

Tony’s eyes, suddenly wall-less, are beautiful. His brow is deeply creased, as though he’s not sure what to interpret. And there, hovering around the edges of his irises, are the tendrils of a feverish light.

Steve makes himself curl down slowly onto his back. He makes himself lie flat, picks up his cloth, makes himself scrub at the underside of his bike. He forces ignorance, even though his body is tight and now uncomfortably overheated, and he’s gone half hard. 

~tbc~

...  
...  
...

**DVD OUTTAKES**

**For your reading pleasure, some songs that, for some reason, didn't make the cut:**

**I.**

_“War!”_ Tony shouts.

“Huh?”

“What is it _good_ for!”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Kind of like this scene,” Tony sighs.

 

**II.**

_“Shake_ yer thang,” Steve says, _“watch_ yerself. _Shake_ yer thang—”

“Stop.”

 

**III.**

“You gotta spend some time, Steve. You gotta spend some time with me.”

“Cut.”

“Baby, you’ll be famous, chase you down until—”

“Cut!”

“Every bond you break, every step you take—”

“I’m leaving,” Steve says, and does.

“You will believe in me!” Tony calls after him. “I will never be ignored!”

 

>.> I don't even know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features Led Zeppelin's [Whole Lotta Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0utAHY3xo4). FYI, Steve's opinion of this song is stolen straight from my brain. There are no words for The Awesome. In my head-canon, Steven Grant Rogers is a fanatical Zep head.


	5. A fool could see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Independence Day, fellow US-ians! And of course, happy birthday, Steve!!!

The thing is, Steve discovers, the thing about these songs is that for the mass amounts of raunchy sex talk and sticky bodily fluids, there’s usually something in there that punches right out the other side. He’s been able to find at least one line in every song Tony’s chosen so far. 

And Tony’s chosen quite a few hair-raisers in the past week. He seems to have penned a new rule for himself: bawdy is better. Steve knows profane war songs, but _these_ are songs he’s actually heard on the radio, or recognized being sung off-key (and very loudly) in public by teenagers as they shuffle by, or seen splashed across the internet as taglines to miniature videos. Without fail, Tony leaps on the most vulgar lyric he can find and slaps it down in front of Steve like a set of blueprints: _This way to my bed; if lost, follow the lurid piping above you._

But Steve has developed his own blueprints. Tony’s goal is pretty easy to make out, and the chinks in his armor are getting clearer by the day. Steve Rogers now has a method to his madness, and slowly but surely, he’s coming out ahead.

Tony looks edgy, standing at the end of the aisle with champagne flute in hand. His hair curls riotously over his forehead, one strand among ten glowing blond under the chandeliers. Steve can’t help but note the detail: he watches Tony all the time now, his fingers twitching around the phone in his pocket, wondering when Tony’ll burst into the next song. And Tony, Tony’s like a dog with a raggedy old rawhide: he cannot let it go. When he comes up with something, his jaw firms in this perfect clench, his chin pops up a notch, and his lips go thin.

Just like they’re doing now, amidst all these Ford- and de la Renta-clad celebrities.

The music is instrumental only, performed by what sounds like a classical symphony, but someone’s been mischievous about it, and Tony’s lips twitch into a dark smirk. He leans casually in, cocking a leg back on the riser behind him.

“I don’t want anybody else. When I think about you—” Tony lapses into pointed humming for the last part, swinging the hand not laden with wine in a suggestive sweep across his pelvis. His suit is beautifully cut, shiny silk and perfect creases, everything leading the eye straight toward his best assets.

Steve mirrors Tony’s pose. He swirls his wine glass, aware of the press of Tony’s arm next to his, and waits for the right string of notes. 

“When you’re around,” he murmurs, conscious of the proximity of their peers, “I’m always laughing. I wanna make you mine.” 

He stares Tony down from a foot away, heart thumping. This time, there’s definite alarm in Tony’s expression. It’s masked by his crowd-pleasing smile, but Steve has had a good week to needle out all the shades in Tony’s facial tics. This one means Tony has lost control, and knows it. 

Tony clears his throat. He glances down, pushes off the wall like he means to walk away. But then the lights dim, and Tony looks ceilingward as though he’s been betrayed. His eyes flick Steve’s way once, and they find their seats.

And there Steve sits, mulishly smug in the knowledge that Tony’s trapped by his side for the duration of the awards ceremony.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features [I Touch Myself](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wv-34w8kGPM) by Divinyls. Naturally. ^_~ Not including this one would be a travesty of epic proportions.


	6. Give me the pay-off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! ^_^

Steve knows what he’s doing. He does.

He tells himself yet again as he traverses Tony’s living room. It’s tough when even his inner voice is shaking.

Another gala, another day of circling each other like sharks. Tony’s jaw is a hard line, his fingers clenched around his tumbler. He’s shed his suit jacket and bow tie, but the vest frames his trim torso, as dark as the night sky and threads glinting like stars. He’s glaring at Steve like he’s going to win, whatever the cost.

It’s a dare, and a petrifying one. Steve has never backed down from a dare. He’s not about to start with Tony Stark.

He plants his feet in the middle of the room and meets Tony stare for stare.

Steve’s never had sex—never had time—but that’s where he’s been aiming ever since last night’s awards show, he’s pretty sure. The knowledge makes him lightheaded, his vision too bright at the edges. But time, as always, doesn’t wait for him. In one jagged move, Tony yanks his phone from his pocket, jabs the screen, and points it at the ceiling. Immediately the song jars to life: quick, appealing, and above all, suggestive. Tony lets the singer run through an ambiguously dirty proposition, never once taking his eyes from Steve’s face. 

“Come on, baby, let me see what you hiding underneath,” Tony mouths, teeth nearly bared.

He’s _counting_ on Steve to run. To cash out for good and leave.

Steve wheedled the song out of FRIDAY early this morning. He got through all of his shock then, bent over on his couch, contemplating the carpet with his mind miles away. It’s the closest he’s come to an asthma attack in decades, and it was then that he entertained the possibility that he was truly in over his head. 

But it’s no longer early morning, and it’s high time for this to come to a head. Tonight, he grabs Tony’s arm and leans in. “Skip the talk, heard it all. Time to walk the walk.” 

Tony lets out a frail huff. His eyes flick, strafing Steve’s face, taking it all in and simultaneously letting it all out: when he sees just how dismantled Tony really is, Steve forgets to breathe. 

Before either of them can entertain a second thought, Steve backs him into a wall and kisses him.

Tony drops the tumbler with a crash and winds both hands into Steve’s hair, meeting him open-mouthed. Steve hitches him up, a hand under his thigh. He presses Tony back, his body doing the work automatically, and Tony groans against his lips, arching forward with enough force to sends streaks across Steve’s vision. He’s hard enough to hurt, has been since Tony stepped out of the limo in that suit, and he never saw his night ending up like this, but he _wants_ it, hell, he’ll do anything for it now. 

Tony pulls at Steve’s shirt, fumbles the tuxedo jacket over his shoulders, then goes stock still, hands locked around Steve’s braces. _“Shit,”_ Tony breathes, drawing the word out. He skates his palms up and down the length of each suspender, tugging them invitingly away from Steve’s shirt. “Oh, fuck me.”

Steve knows it’s not an invitation; Tony’s attention is too fixed for that. But he can’t help himself: “Might have to talk me through it.”

Tony’s body damn near vibrates in his arms. The shudder races from hips to crown, forcing the air from Tony’s lungs. He abandons the suspenders and takes Steve’s face in his hands. _“What_ did you just say to me,” he breathes, then silences Steve’s answer with a bruising kiss.

Steve Rogers may be ninety-seven and not dead, but he’s never kissed Tony Stark before. He decides on the spot that as far as the rest of the world is concerned, he just might be dead after all. His hands, his mouth, and mostly his hips seem to know the dance already: he abandons the idea that he might have to impress Tony and simply goes for broke. He kisses like he wants to be kissed. He shoves against the heat Tony gives off, and he feels up the body before him, sweeping Tony’s flanks to the tight muscle of his shoulders, and Steve’s been shot and stabbed before, but this thrusts even deeper than bullets, straight to his core. He had no idea he could be this unsteady and still be standing.

“Bed,” Tony manages eventually. He can’t seem to stop pressing into Steve, hips then chest then thighs, again and again. “Okay?”

Steve levers him back against the wall for a moment longer; if he walks anywhere right now, he’ll come in his pants, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. Despite his suggestion to relocate, Tony seems happy to go along with whatever, whimpering into Steve’s mouth, urging tiny kisses against his lips in between brutal strokes of tongue, and hell, if all of their taunting was building to Tony Stark in this state, desperate to do this with him, Steve will be repeating it as soon as humanly possible.

After they get out of bed again.

~tbc~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features [Peacock](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDnMH92hOfI) by Katy Perry. And to make it even more insidiously catchy, I highly suggest this [chat roulette version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o71kCuva4B4). You won't be disappointed: it's hysterical.
> 
> A quick note: This chapter riffs off of Chris Evans' [recent interpretation of Steve Rogers' sexual experience, post-ice](http://www.accesshollywood.com/chris-evans-captain-america-is-probably-a-virgin_article_107036).
> 
> One more chapter to go!


	7. Epilogue: A thrill to press my cheek to

_Three months later…_

 

At the front of the ballroom, the band swings into Mack the Knife.

Steve takes Tony’s wine from him, sets it down, and stands. In spite of the looks, in spite of the brief lull and the murmurs that follow, he takes Tony’s hand and pulls gently until they’re on the dance floor. Tony’s mouth quirks; he follows Steve readily enough, right into the center of the throng.

Steve tucks Tony against him chest to thighs, secures an arm around his waist and twines the fingers of Tony’s right hand in his left. The music is playful at the moment, the singer snapping her fingers in her glittering black dress, but in a minute—

Tony follows Steve’s lead gamely, matching the exaggerated sway of his fox trot and obliging in a dip and a spin. They’ve danced this in the privacy of the Tower, a patient demonstration from Tony and an eagle-eyed focus from Steve, but here it’s loose and easy, plied into Steve’s bones like the best kind of flavor. By the flashy end, the singer sailing gloriously through the final note with her arms raised, Tony is laughing, Tony is delighted.

A pause, a smattering of applause, and the first chords of the song Steve’s been waiting for all evening gently swell. He wiggles his eyebrows; Tony looks at him and snorts

“At last,” Steve croons. He lapses into humming for the iconic line, and smiles. Loves that Tony can’t help but smile back. 

“You are such a ham, Rogers.”

Steve gathers Tony closer, twines their fingers between their chests and wheels them slowly around the floor. “My lonely days are over.”

Tony kisses Steve in front of everyone. His hands coast down Steve’s spine, lingering just beneath the small of his back and sliding back up. “And life is like a song,” he sighs.

Steve busses his ear. “You had that coming.”

“I sure did.”

And they drift.

~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Alright. As you may have noticed, there's an explicit missing scene between the previous chapter and this one. Initially not intended to be written, but... anyone want? I could be convinced.**
> 
> This chapter features [At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-cbOl96RFM) by Etta James. Because it's Steve's turn. Just for kicks, here's [Mack the Knife](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEllHMWkXEU) by Bobby Darin, too. ^_^

**Author's Note:**

> Title from U2's [Desire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z8rQ575DWD8).
> 
> Thank you to coffeejunkii for reading this one!
> 
> ***Now on to The Missing Scene Between Chapter 6 and Chapter 7. Which is so smutty. And longer than the ENTIRE fic combined. [Freedoms I wanted](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4366226)***

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Freedoms I wanted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366226) by [RurouniHime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime)




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